My Fractured Childhood

In February, 2009, I lost my mother. She didn't die. She walked away. Figuratively, of course, as she was living 3,000 miles away, on a different coast, in a different country. The pain was tremendous. A death, but by choice. As difficult as it was in the moment, it soon became a blessing. A lifetime of challenges eventually melted, and I survived and indeed, thrived.

I refer to my early years as a fractured childhood. I never, for a moment, doubted that I was loved. My mother just had some pretty messed up ways of showing it. I didn't know that my life was not normal. In public, around others, my mother hid her demons, and always had a loving smile and kind word. On the rare occasion when I had friends over, my mother was June Cleaver. When we were alone, she was Joan Crawford. When I was at friends' houses, their mothers were just as sweet and kind. I didn't realize that other mothers were always like that, not just when company was around!

My earliest memories are of abuse - physical and emotional. That isn't to say that I only have terrible memories, not so. But those that are most impressive are the bad ones. Child abuse as we now know it, wasn't a thing in the 70's. Oddly my mother was incredibly over-protective, but at the same time, exposed me to things that small children shouldn't be. One day maybe, I will write about the details. Those are incidental to me now. No need to dredge up long forgotten tragedies.

I longed for family. I wanted so badly to be part of the loving community that I knew as FAMILY. I was an only child; it was just my mother and me at home. My grandmother, Minnie, was my lifeline. She provided the unconditional love that a child should have. Sometimes I felt like I wanted to crawl up inside her heart and heal. She adored me and the feeling was mutual. In retrospect, I realize now, I was starved for affection. That insecurity still plagues me today - to a point that it sometimes interferes with healthy relationships. My need for validation can be suffocating. I'm growing though. Always growing.

As sad as it was, my happiest family times were at funerals. Maybe because extended family came together. Maybe because, for one short day, they held their tongues and let peace live. I remember after an aunt's funeral, talking to someone, saying that we should have some time together under better circumstances. Even as I said it, I didn't believe it would happen.

At the same time, though, family meant pain. My mother's narcissism, manic-depressive episodes and other mental health issues, alcoholism, fighting, abuse, it was always there... bubbling under the pretty facade that we were forced to uphold. I grew from that: chose joy, found courage and left that behind. At times, I have lamented what I've lost. Now I am grateful for the gifts that surviving it gave me: the capacity for unconditional love; a healthy nurturing relationship with my own kids; the ability to be without judgment; the knowledge that I can survive anything. I wouldn't wish what I lived on anyone, but I am a better person for it.